Yet in the darkness of that dread
His tongue was parched and his reason fled,
And he watched, as the lamp burned low and dim,
To see some Phantom, gaunt and grim,
Come dabbled o'er with blood.
Sir Everard kneeled, and strove to pray;
He prayed for light, and he prayed for day,
Till terror checked his prayer;
And ever I muttered clear and well
"Click, click," like a tolling bell,
Till, bound by Fancy's magic spell,
Sir Everard fainted there.
And oft, from that remembered night,
Around the taper's flickering light
The wrinkled beldames told,
Sir Everard had knowledge won
Of many a murder darkly done,
Of fearful sights, and fearful sounds,
And Ghosts that walk their midnight rounds
In the Tower of Kenneth Hold!
THE canvas rattled on the mast
As rose the swelling sail,
And gallantly the vessel past
Before the cheering gale;
And on my First Sir Florice stood,
As the far shore faded now,
And looked upon the lengthening flood
With a pale and pensive brow :—
"When shall I bear thy silken glove
Where the proudest Moslem flee,
My lady love, my lady love,
O waste one thought on me!"
Sir Florice lay in a dungeon cell
With none to soothe or save,
And high above his chamber fell
The echo of the wave;
But still he struck my Second there,
And bade its tones renew
Those hours when every hue was fair And every hope was true :—
"If still your angel footsteps move Where mine may never be,
My lady love, my lady love,
O dream one dream of me!"
Not long the Christian captive pined !—
My Whole was round his neck;
A sadder necklace ne'er was twined
So white a skin to deck:
Queen Folly ne'er was yet content
With gems or golden store,
But he who wears this ornament
Will rarely sigh for more :-
"My spirit to the Heaven above,
My body to the sea,
My heart to thee, my lady love,—
O weep one tear for me!”
Row on, row on!-The First may light
My shallop o'er the wave to-night,
But she will hide in a little while
The lustre of her silent smile;
For fickle she is, and changeful still,
As a madman's wish, or a woman's will.
Row on, row on!-The Second is high
In my own bright Lady's balcony;
And she beside it, pale and mute,
Untold her beads, untouched her lute,
Is wondering why her lover's skiff
So slowly glides to the lonely cliff.
Row on, row on!-when the Whole is fled,
The song will be hushed and the rapture dead,
And I must go in my grief again
To the toils of day and the haunts of men,-
To a future of fear and a present of care,
And Memory's dream of the things that were.
ONE day my First young Cupid made
In Vulcan's Lemnian cell;
For alas! he has learnt his father's trade,
As many have found, too well:
He worked not the work with golden twine,
He wreathed it not with flowers,
He left the metal to rust in the mine,
The roses to fade in the bowers;
He forged my First of looks and sighs,
Of painful doubts and fears,
Of passionate hopes and memories,
Of eloquent smiles and tears.
My Second was born a wayward thing,
Like others of his name,
With a fancy as light as the gossamer's wing
And a spirit as hot as flame;
And apt to trifle time away,
And rather fool than knave,
And either very gravely gay
Or very gaily grave;
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